


Starve a Fever, Feed a Cold

by prototyping



Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: Caretaking, Friendship, Gen, Platonic Relationships, Prompt Fic, Sickfic, TalesWhumpWeek, genfic, the million dollar question: is mikleo his brother or his mother, we may never know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-18 02:04:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16108511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prototyping/pseuds/prototyping
Summary: Sorey’s always been pretty terrible at taking care of himself, but at least it’s given Mikleo plenty of opportunities to hone his skills.Done for the prompt “sick” in the TalesWhumpWeek challenge on tumblr.





	Starve a Fever, Feed a Cold

“Feeling any better?”

The hopeful question was met with a miserable groan and only the slightest of shifts in the bundle of blankets. _“No.”_

Sorey frowned, equal parts concern and disappointment. It wasn’t as though he’d expected Mikleo to be fully recovered after only a couple hours, but he’d been optimistic in thinking there would be _some_ improvement. To an eight-year-old, a couple hours was, after all, a pretty big chunk of wasted daylight.

“Oh,” he replied unhelpfully.

“Myrna said it’s a cold,” came Mikleo’s stuffy voice again. “It might take a few days to go away.”

“Aww.” Stretching his legs out along the floor, Sorey tapped his slightly-too-large boots together absently. “That’s too bad. And you’ve gotta stay inside the _whole_ time?”

“The more I rest, the sooner I’ll get better.” It was said in such a way that Sorey guessed it was word-for-word what the older seraph had told him. Sniffing, Mikleo muttered, “Even if it _is_ boring.”

Sorey perked up. “Well, hey! We can just do stuff inside, then. It’s no big deal.” He turned around and set his forearms on the bed, beaming at Mikleo’s blanket cocoon. “It’s better than lying around by yourself. You’ll be better in no time!” Mikleo was tougher than he looked, too. If a few days was what it took for other people, he’d probably recover even faster.

Mikleo finally pushed his blankets back and sat up, but slowly, and with no lack of disgruntled noises. His white hair was a frazzled mess and his skin was paler than usual, making his bright red nose look that much more out of place. He looked tired, too. _Really_ tired. Despite wearing one of his thicker long-sleeved shirts, he was quick to cross his arms as he shivered.

The sight made Sorey frown a second time. He hadn’t looked that bad the last time he saw him. “Maybe you should stay in bed, though,” he offered. Reaching back down to the floor, he used both hands to haul his copy of the Celestial Record up onto the mattress. It was _their_ copy, technically, but Sorey spent more time with it, had read it at least thrice as many times as Mikleo, and rarely let it out of his sight. “How about I read to you?”

He was already flipping through it when Mikleo sniffled again. “Okay. But I don’t really feel like talking much.”

“That’s okay! Maybe going through it without talking this time will help us see something new.”

In the corner of his eye, Mikleo tilted his head with a doubtful look. “You’ve read it like a hundred times, Sorey.”

“Yeah, but that’s what’s so cool! Every time I read it, I notice something different, or I understand something I didn’t before! That’s why it’s so exciting!” Jumping up to sit cross-legged on the edge of the bed, Sorey went on grinning as he pulled the open book into his lap. “Even if it’s just something small, sometimes that totally changes everything around it!”

Despite his stuffy-headed misery, Mikleo managed to look interested. He leaned back against the wall and drew up his knees and the blanket with them, leaving only his face exposed.

As used as Sorey was to talking for long spiels at a time, he had no trouble reading out loud for a while. Despite his earlier remark, Mikleo interrupted a couple times to raise a question or point something out, effectively derailing the conversation as they tossed ideas back and forth for a bit before Sorey finally resumed reading.

They’d managed to avoid any further debates for an entire four pages when the door opened, cutting Sorey off halfway through a paragraph on the history of Pendrago’s shrinechurch.

“Sorey! What are you doing in here?”

The voice wasn’t unkind, but he winced all the same. Despite her gentle countenance and calm demeanor, Cynthia was probably the strictest adult in the family (after Gramps, anyway). She was also the least likely to give in to the pleading faces that usually worked on everyone else, and Sorey could tell from her tone alone that he was already at a disadvantage.

“Uh…” He snapped the book shut with a hopeful grin as she approached. “Keeping Mikleo company?”

“I can see that.” She glanced between the two boys and sighed quietly, hands on her hips. “Sorey, weren’t you told to let him rest?”

“Yeah, but…”

“Mikleo’s staying in here so he can get better, but he’s also here so he doesn’t get anyone else sick.”

“He said it’s just a cold.”

“A cold that _you_ don’t need to chance catching.”

“I wouldn’t mind—”

“Sorey.”

He dropped his gaze, aware of when an argument was lost. “That isn’t the point,” she said firmly, although her volume dropped just enough to suggest she understood how he felt. “It doesn’t take much for a cough to turn into something worse, especially with the cold nights we’re having. And we’re very limited up here with how much we can treat; humans in particular are more sensitive when it comes to illness.”

Sorey made a face, but didn’t object. It wasn’t often that a difference in their races was brought up, but it felt terribly unfair all the same.

Cynthia held out a hand, indication that he should come to her—and that she would take his arm and guide him out if she had to.

“Sorry…” Mikleo muttered, even as he struggled not to nod off from where he’d bundled up tight with his blankets again. Sorey didn’t hesitate to flash him an optimistic smile.

“Don’t worry about it!” He slid off the bed and tucked his book under his arm. “You just focus on sleeping a lot and getting better!”

* * *

Sorey spent the rest of the day trying to keep himself busy. Any other time, it would have been an easy task, but by himself most pastimes lost their appeal. He read a little more of the Celestial Record, resumed his studies of the Ancient Tongue for about half an hour, helped Natalie with milking the goats, took an absent walk around the hillside, perused the Celestial Record again, and even resorted to straightening up some of the mess in his house before one of the women got onto him about it again. After eating dinner—and being told that Mikleo needed sleep more than food and probably wouldn’t eat tonight—he retreated back to his house for what would normally be another hour of free time before bed.

“I’m so _bored,_ ” he muttered at his ceiling. He was lying spread-eagle on the floor, rapping his knuckles on the stone to an absent rhythm in his head. He and Mikleo weren’t _always_ together, of course. Most of the time, sure, but occasionally they were given different chores or tasks that pulled them apart, and every so often they decided on separate activities when they couldn’t agree on one. But even then, there were always plans to reunite soon after. Something like _this_ was nigh on unbearable—not knowing when Mikleo would be able to rejoin him, and having that threatening possibility of “a few days” lingering over their heads.

Sorey sighed for probably the tenth time in the last hour. This day was almost over, but if this was what he had to look forward to, he wasn’t keen on tomorrow being much better.

He sat up, frowning. He felt _fine_. As long as he didn’t touch Mikleo or get too close or whatever, he shouldn’t be at risk of catching anything, right? He could be careful. And it wasn’t really disobeying the adults, besides; Sorey genuinely wanted to know how Mikleo was doing, and if there was anything he could help with, he would be making himself useful, not just playing around.

His mind set, he pulled on his boots and cloak again and made for the door.

The village was nearly empty. Light could be seen through the windows and doorways of most of the houses, voices of casual conversations drifting through the cool autumn air. Mikleo’s house was close, but Sorey slowed to a stop, wrinkling his nose, when he noticed several of the adults standing in a circle a little ways beyond it and chatting as they often did.

He definitely wouldn’t make it to the doorway without being seen. He chewed his lip for a moment as he reconsidered—and then instead of heading straight down towards the center of the hill like usual, Sorey turned and slipped around the side of his house, keeping to the shadows. It took longer, but he managed to sneak around to the back of Mikleo’s place without drawing any attention.

He still had no hope of getting through the front door, but that was fine. After so much time in the nearby ruins, he was a good climber (better than Mikleo, he liked to proudly think) and hoisting himself up to the small window, which was situated about three times his height overhead, was only as difficult as finding the right footholds, which took less than half a minute. The window was unlocked, of course, and just big enough for Sorey to wriggle through without much difficulty. His drop to the floor below was much less graceful, but the bruise on his elbow and scrape on his knee were brushed off and quickly forgotten.

The room was dark, but his eyes had already adjusted to the night outside. It looked like Mikleo was asleep, undisturbed by the breaking-and-entering, so Sorey was careful to keep quiet as he approached and peered down at him.

The covers were pulled up to his neck, but he wasn’t shivering anymore. He looked a lot more relaxed, too, although his breathing sounded thick and uncomfortable. Sorey smiled, glad and hopeful that it was a sign of a quick recovery. Not for the sake of his own boredom (mostly), but because Mikleo really had seemed miserable earlier, despite his efforts to act otherwise.

Sorey had been so focused on getting here undetected that he’d forgotten to bring the Celestial Record. It was just as well; he couldn’t read in the dark, anyway, and he didn’t want to wake his friend with any light. Instead he stretched out along the bottom of the bed—there was plenty of room, and he did so carefully—and faced the far wall with an arm folded under his head.

He’d stick around to keep an eye on Mikleo, he reasoned, just in case he needed something. If it got too late and there was no sign of his waking, Sorey would return to his own house, long before any of the adults came in to check on him.

That plan was still sounding good to him when he drifted off to sleep ten minutes later.

* * *

“Ugh, it’s so _hot._ I really wanna go outside…”

“You _better_ not.” Mikleo frowned as deeply as his round face would allow, unaware that he was doing a pretty good job of mirroring Cynthia’s same expression. “You heard what Gramps said—”

“I know, I know.” Sorey tossed and turned a few more times, finally flipping his pillow over to bury his face in the cooler side. Once that, too, had grown warm, he turned his head just enough to peer over at Mikleo with one eye. “You didn’t tell me it was _this_ bad.”

“It wasn’t. Cynthia said humans are more sensitive, so maybe it’s worse for you.”

Sorey grumbled something as he turned back to his pillow.

“Or maybe you’re just being a big baby,” Mikleo quipped.

“I am _not!_ ” Sorey sat bolt upright as if to prove it, but the feverish flush in his face and his sweat-damp hair and stuffy voice did his argument no favors. “It’s not really _bad_ ,” he insisted, contradicting what he’d said only seconds before, “it’s just annoying. I hate being cooped up inside like this.”

“And I hate being woken up because you won’t stop moving and talking. Just go to sleep.” Mikleo rolled onto his left side, tugging his half of the blankets with him, but Sorey just groaned again.

“I _can’t_. I wake up feeling gross and dizzy and cold.”

“Then stay under the blankets,” said Mikleo flatly. This was all Sorey’s fault in the first place, having insisted on sticking around despite the adults’ warnings. Since they were both sick now, it was more convenient to keep them together—probably at least partly to make sure Sorey didn’t kill himself trying to sneak over here again—and while it was fine at first, Sorey was much more vocal about his discomfort. Or maybe he _did_ have it worse, especially now that Mikleo was on the mend and didn’t share in the same depth of misery, and was entitled to some whining—but the middle of the night wasn’t the time for it.

Either Mikleo’s impatience was convincing or he was just out of things to complain about, because Sorey did finally settle down. He continued to squirm and move and push and pull at the blankets, but that was easier to ignore than his voice. Mikleo needed no time to fall asleep again.

It was morning the next time he awoke, but still very early judging by the color of the sunlight. It was dead silent, too, except for Sorey’s heavy breathing at his back that said he was still zonked out.

Mikleo was pleasantly surprised to find his head a lot clearer and breathing much easier than they had been yesterday. There was still an unnatural chill in his skin, but it was minor, and he felt more tired than sick now. For a few minutes he lay there, glad to have regained the ability to breathe through his nose again, for the most part.

He wasn’t sure if the bed started shaking then, or if he simply hadn’t noticed before. Puzzled, he quickly sat up and looked over to see Sorey curled into a tight ball, shivering—but his shivers were intense, almost alarmingly so, his small shoulders twitching with the effort.

Concerned, Mikleo reached for his arm. “Hey, Sorey—ah?” Sorey’s skin was burning up. He’d always felt strangely warm to touch, especially compared to the other seraphim, but this definitely wasn’t right. Despite the increased heat, he continued to shake as though he were freezing.

Mikleo had gone through hot and cold spells during the worst of it, too, but nothing like this. Slipping out of bed, he retrieved one of the clean cloths Medea had left. One small, simple arte later, it was cold and drenched and he was careful to wring it out before folding it across Sorey’s hot forehead. He climbed back into bed, but now sat cross-legged watching his friend with worry.

What if he _had_ caught something worse? What did that mean? Mikleo tried not to let his thoughts wander back to some of the books they’d read, historical accounts of deadly plagues and other threatening illnesses. Those kinds of things only happened among humans in the world below, right? Not in a pure, safe place like Elysia.

But Sorey was human. While that fact was rarely mentioned and barely _worth_ mentioning, it was still a fact, and maybe one that mattered in this instance.

Mikleo chewed his lip. Should he go get someone? Or was it better to stay close in case Sorey got worse? He felt lost and uneasy and a little nervous—but after about a minute of shifting uncertainly in his seat as he debated what to do, he closed his eyes and breathed deep, reminding himself to think logically.

Someone would come check on them soon, as they had every morning since Mikleo first fell ill. And even if he did bring someone, was there much else they could do? Colds, Medea said, were different from injuries; they could be soothed a little with healing artes, but not cured. They had to go away on their own with proper rest. To that end, Mikleo had been told to sleep and keep warm as much as he was able… which meant it was important, maybe _more_ important, that Sorey do the same.

Gathering up his half of the blankets, he quickly folded them over to pile them on top of Sorey. After a long minute the shivering went down some, but not much. Mikleo immediately went to work tucking him in on every side to try and seal in his warmth, and then sat back with a frown when that didn’t immediately help, either. After further deliberation, he pulled up one side of the blankets, slid underneath them, and sidled up against Sorey’s back.

He grimaced at how warm and sweaty he was, but then pulled the blankets down over them both regardless. They weren’t strangers to sharing close spaces and body heat, especially when they delved into the Mabinogio ruins during the winter months. Sometimes they couldn’t get a fire going if the air was too damp down there, and the only way to stay warm was to sit side-by-side, shoulder-to-shoulder, or to even clasp hands as they walked to thaw their numb fingers.

So Mikleo set his cheek against Sorey’s shoulder as he set an arm across his belly, knowing full well Sorey would do the same for him. It definitely wasn’t pleasant, but after a few minutes those shivers did, finally, die down for the most part, although Sorey’s breathing remained heavy and erratic and he didn’t budge from his curled position. Mikleo tried casting the one simple healing arte that he knew, but it was still underdeveloped and he was still worn down by his own fatigue, so he doubted it did much.

He started to drift back to sleep several times. Finally he sat up, but he kept the blankets pulled over them both and remained firmly against Sorey’s back.

If Sorey went through the same motions he had, he would wake up overheated and thirsty at some point. Mikleo could help with that much, he reasoned, and staying busy was a good way of keeping himself awake, so he slid out of bed again. He paused to double-check Sorey’s blankets, making certain he was still snug, and then used both hands to pick up the wicker basket sitting on the floor nearby.

It was light, but there were still some contents left inside—hopefully enough for some trial-and-error. He’d never tried it this way before, but he had a knack for such things and some basic experience to his name, so he deemed it worth a try.

* * *

Everyone kept saying sleep was important to getting better, but Sorey seemed to wake up feeling _worse_ every time.

This time he awoke to watery eyes, sweaty skin, and a runny nose. He quickly sat up with a huff and had a brief struggle with the blankets wrapped tight around him, finally snatching up one of his dirty handkerchiefs and blowing his nose loudly. That only made his eyes water more and he struggled to wipe them clear with his sleeve. He was so distracted by his state of discomfort that he almost didn’t hear Mikleo.

“Sorey?”

Sorey grunted the affirmative, too tired and grumpy—and his throat too sore—to speak properly. It was another few seconds before he could see well enough to try and locate the speaker.

Mikleo sat on floor nearby. His cheeks and nose were still a little flushed, evidence that he wasn’t quite back to one hundred percent health just yet, but he looked loads better than previously, and much better than Sorey currently felt. Not for the first time in their lives, Sorey felt a pang of harmless jealousy.

As curious as he wanted to be about what Mikleo was up to, especially with those bowls and utensils littering the floor around him, Sorey just flopped backwards into his pillow with another grunt. He left the blankets pooled around his feet. “Sleeping didn’t help,” he muttered at the ceiling, voice hoarse.

“Then you haven’t gotten enough of it,” Mikleo suggested.

“Hnn.”

In the corner of his eye he saw Mikleo scoot closer on his knees, and then felt his cool hand on his wrist. “Are you still cold?”

“No. Hot.”

“You need to drink something.”

Sorey groaned again. As good as a cold drink sounded, sitting up again seemed like too much work. As if reading his mind, Mikleo stood up and offered both hands. “Come on.” Sorey took them and let himself be tugged back up again, and watched as a cup of gold-brown liquid was all but pushed into his hands.

He’d _thought_ a drink sounded good, but as soon as his stopped-up nose caught a whiff of the strong scent of apples, his stomach lurched with an audible growl. He shoved the drink back at Mikleo. “I can’t.” He expected his friend to chide him for the refusal, but he didn’t push. Instead, Mikleo took the cup back and retreated down to the floor once more, and then a moment later sat on the edge of the bed and presented something else.

“Try this.”

“What is it?” Sorey took it even as he asked, his curiosity momentarily trumping his discomfort. It looked like a cylinder made of ice, except that it was the same golden color as the apple juice. A spoon was wedged in the middle of it, frozen half-submerged inside it, and it was this makeshift handle that Sorey held in his hot fingers.

“Ice cream, kind of,” Mikleo answered. “I used juice instead of milk. Medea said milk isn’t good with a fever.”

Cautiously, Sorey stuck out his tongue and touched the fruit-ice experimentally. The cold wasn’t shocking—he’d gladly played taste-tester when Mikleo first tried his hand at making ice cream only recently—but the texture was unusual. It definitely tasted like apple juice, but not as strongly as drinking it straight.

Once again, Mikleo was in sync with his thoughts: “If drinking’s too hard, this might be easier—Sorey!” He put his fists on his hips, frowning, as Sorey stuck the whole thing in his mouth. “Don’t choke!”

Sorey pulled it back out with a wet _pop._ “It’s good,” he assured him, as if this justified wholly obstructing his only current method of breathing. “Where’d you get the idea?”

Mikleo shrugged. “I just thought of it.”

“It’s a good one!”

He tried not to smile at the compliment, but failed. It was pretty obvious he was proud of it.

He reclaimed his side of the bed as Sorey occupied himself with the ice treat. For a while neither of them spoke. Mikleo stared at the ceiling, his mind working in the quiet. It continued to work when Sorey eventually lay down again, when his unconscious shivers eventually resumed, and when Mikleo moved to lie back-to-back with him.

He was glad that it was Myrna who stopped by to check on them. He watched anxiously as she touched Sorey’s warm cheek, quietly clucking her tongue before casting a brief healing arte. She re-wet the rag across his forehead and, catching his expression, she smiled at Mikleo. “Well, he’s definitely caught the worst of it, but there’s nothing to worry about. As long as he stays put and doesn’t let his temperature get any higher, the two of you will be romping around like usual in a week or so.”

“How do we keep his temperature down?”

“The cold rag’s a good start, but he needs to keep drinking as much as he’s able. That’s about all we can do.”

Mikleo noted that.

“It’s fine if he tries to keep warm with these chills. It’s just all the more important that he takes in liquids. Eating would be good for him, but there’s no need to rush it. It’s best to wait until he has an appetite again, even if it’s just a small one.”

As she removed the blankets to replace them with the clean ones she’d brought, Mikleo moved to help her. Only once that was done, and he’d returned to sitting beside Sorey, did he finally voice his recent thoughts. “Myrna? You said that… healing artes can do different things. Like protect you from ailments, or cure them.”

The wind seraph watched him curiously, giving him her undivided attention. “That’s right. And different elements specialize in different ailments.” While she was probably the most jovial and lighthearted individual in the family, she was also one of the eldest, and one of the most talented when it came to healing artes. Most of what Mikleo had learned so far had been under her tutelage.

He nodded. “Um…” His small hands fisted around the blanket in his lap. “I was wondering… is there an arte that protects against everything?” After a moment he rephrased it: “You told me about resistance artes. Is there something like that, but for healing?” He wasn’t sure he was phrasing it right, but Myrna seemed to understand what he was getting at.

With a renewed smile she sat down beside him, gingerly, on the edge of the bed. “As far as I’m aware, there aren’t any artes that cure anything and everything—well,” she corrected, “nothing on the level of power that you and I are capable of. But it’s possible to mix effects by combining different artes. It’s tricky, even for us older seraphim, but with enough study you can use that principle to create new artes with the effects you want.” She glanced back at Sorey’s sleeping form. “For example, you could try adding a resistance property to the First Aid arte I taught you. It wouldn’t be a miracle cure or anything like that, and it would only fit in certain situations, but it would be more effective than casting two artes back-to-back. Faster, too.”

“So… do you think I could learn to do something like that?”

“I definitely think you have the talent for it.” She set a gentle hand on his head. “And you’re bright enough to learn anything you set your mind to. _But_ —” Her touch fell away as she stood up. “—that’s talk for another day. Right now you need to rest, and sleep off the last of that cold before you catch it all over again.”

Mikleo nodded again, momentarily satisfied with that answer. At least now he had something to think about. “Yes, ma’am. And thank you.”

She waited for him to lie down, and then pulled the blankets up to tuck in both boys. Mikleo lay awake for a while after she left, thinking, and listening to the sounds of labored breathing at his side.

* * *

“ _Sorey._ What are you doing?”

“Almost done,” Sorey muttered, waving a dismissive hand. He didn’t look up from the open book in his lap.

With a hard sigh Mikleo crossed the room to his bedside, reached down, and snatched the Celestial Record away to close it with a snap. He did, at least, have the heart to slip a finger between the pages to mark Sorey’s place. “And _why_ aren’t you resting?”

“I _am_ resting,” Sorey objected. His voice sounded hoarse at best, the audible equivalent to the telltale shade of red in his face. He made a swipe for the book, but Mikleo took a quick step back and fixed him with a stern look. Sorey twisted his mouth into a near-pout as he glanced aside, bitterly retorting, “You look like Cynthia when you do that.”

It took a considerable amount of self-control not to bring the book down on his head. “And you look like death warmed over,” Mikleo scowled. “Don’t tell me you’ve been up all morning.”

“Alright, I won’t.”

Mikleo’s next sigh was more of a growl, but like usual Sorey was quick to break the would-be tension with a bright, insufferable grin. “Hey, you’re one to talk, anyway. Don’t you know I’m under quarantine?”

“Like that ever stops you.” Mikleo took a seat on the floor, setting the Record aside and opening the bag he’d brought.

Indeed, the attempts to keep the two of them separated at _all_ had all but ceased in the last few years. It probably helped that Sorey proved impressively resilient when it came to his health, but the family had come to the exasperated decision that keeping them apart was a futile effort. Not to mention the two of them—more so Mikleo—were more conscious of warding off sickness these days, and could generally be trusted to at least make an effort to avoid catching any illness the other had contracted.

“But seriously,” Mikleo criticized, “I’m not waiting around for you forever. If you take much longer to get better, I’m heading back without you.”

“You wouldn’t.” Sorey didn’t sound as confident as he probably meant to.

Mikleo glanced at him. “That room isn’t going anywhere. What difference does it make if I explore it first?” Predictably, Sorey frowned. “Besides, you’re the one who fell into the underground lake in the first place, and didn’t listen when I told you to warm up before you came down with something, and ended up bedridden and holding us back—”

“Okay, okay, I get it. I should’ve listened. Is that what you wanna hear?”

“I’d _like_ to hear ‘Yes, Mikleo, I’ll rest up like I’m supposed to so I can recover and we can head back to the ruins and investigate together.’ But it’s a good start.” While Sorey gave a stubborn hum, Mikleo finished up the task at hand. A minute later he stood and all but shoved a bowl at him. “Start with this. You sound terrible.”

Their conversation aside, Sorey rarely turned down food and had yet to refuse anything Mikleo made. His demeanor shifted immediately as he accepted the bowl of shaved ice, humming his thanks.

Instead of resuming his seat on the floor, Mikleo remained where he was at the bedside. Much to his chagrin, Sorey had hit a rapid growth spurt this time last year, just after turning eleven; what had once been a couple inches’ difference in their heights was now the nerve-grating reality that Mikleo was barely on eye-level with his chin. He was optimistic that he would catch up eventually, but in the meantime he preferred to avoid situations where he had to look up at him, when it could be helped.

Sorey either hadn’t noticed the grudge or didn’t care to point it out. “This is good!” he commented around the spoon. “You add something new?”

Mikleo crossed his arms, eying him skeptically. “You know it won’t kill you to be bored for a few days, right.”

“I _know_ , but think of all that time wasted…” Catching Mikleo’s unwavering look, Sorey sighed. “But I’ll waste more time if I take longer to recover, right?”

“If you already know that, save us all some time and listen to our advice already.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

Sorey looked away and Mikleo allowed his expression to soften just slightly. “You know they only do this because they care.”

“I do,” Sorey replied quietly, seriously. Then, with a sly grin he surmised, “Just like you feed me because _you_ care, right?”

It was Mikleo’s turn to look away. “Don’t read into it so much.” His tone was indifferent, but they both knew full well how stubborn he was.

“Heh. Yeah, sure.”

* * *

“You’re certainly getting adept at hiding it.”

“Huh? Hiding what?” Sorey turned to find Mikleo staring up at him, arms crossed and eyebrow arched in a look that dared him to try that lie a second time.

“It’s been almost half a day since you made the pact with Edna.”

Turning away, Sorey kept his tone light. “Yeah? So what?”

Mikleo’s strong fingers caught his wrist, stopping him mid-step and forcing him back around. His free hand reached up, but Sorey snatched it out of the air before it could touch his forehead. “Hey! What’s with you?”

“What’s with _you?_ ” Mikleo snapped. He pulled himself free and took a step back. “How long have you had a fever?”

Sorey winced. “Not… It’s not like before,” he said quickly, firmly. “I’m fine. I’m not even tired.”

His friend’s glare was so intense, he wouldn’t have been surprised if Mikleo lashed out and hit him right then. “And did you deduce that before or after we entered a _plaguetown?_ ”

Sorey opened his mouth, closed it, and then quietly scowled. “Look, it’s not a big deal, alright? Lailah said I’m getting better at adjusting—”

“And does she know?” Mikleo interrupted coldly. “Let me guess.”

“She doesn’t _need_ to know, I told you it’s—”

“Sorey?” They both glanced over at where Alisha stood further up the road. She looked concerned—at least, Sorey thought she did, but it was hard to say for sure between all the evening shadows and his failing right eye. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” he called quickly. “We’re coming.” He turned back to Mikleo. “Look, I can sleep this off later. Right now we need to deal with Marlind and there’s no time to waste just because I feel a little off. I’m fine,” he added, forcing his impatient voice into a gentler one. “Really. Trust me on this.”

Mikleo’s grunt was at least half scoff. “Trust you to look after your health. Yeah, okay.”

“Don’t give me that, Mikleo. We’re not kids anymore—”

“Exactly,” he retorted sharply. “We’re not kids, and I can’t fix this by babysitting you and making sure you eat and stay in bed like you’re supposed to!”

“I don’t _expect_ you to fix it!” Sorey countered hotly. It took effort not to raise his voice. “I understand it’s dangerous, but there are some chances I just have to take. I can look after myself. I know the risks.”

Mikleo’s expression hardened and Sorey immediately knew he’d said the wrong thing. “That’s your excuse, huh? You’ll keep running yourself into the ground and lying to me because you _have_ to?” His arms dropped with an impatient sigh as he stepped around Sorey. “Fine.”

“Mikleo, I’m not—”

“Don’t.” Mikleo’s tone had gone from cold to frigid. He didn’t turn back. “You still can’t tell a lie to save your life. If you’re not going to be honest, don’t insult me.”

Sorey watched him go, his chest heavy, weighed down with more than just the swirling malevolence.

* * *

He awoke with a start, bolting upright in a heaving gasp and swirling vision that made his head pound harder and almost put him on his back again. He caught himself, but then the shivers and the stomach cramps hit him and he nearly gagged on the wave of nausea that surged up his throat—

“Sorey?”

The voice made him look up, but the nearby fire made his eyes water and he had to blink his sight into focus. Even then, his memory was slow to catch on and he was confused by the hard ground, the unfamiliar cave, the cold wind gusting in through the entrance yards away…

“Sorey.” A touch to his shoulder grounded his thoughts, but then the face to which it belonged puzzled him also. For a moment Sorey could only stare, struggling to understand whom he was looking at in that fever-inflamed, lightheaded border between sleep and waking. His headache grew worse, making him wince, and the one at his side—the one familiar but not—took hold of him and pushed him back onto his bed of thin blankets. Sorey didn’t resist; he didn’t have the strength to, anyway. “Take it easy. You’re still in the worst of it, so you’re probably not very lucid yet.”

His foggy mind understood about half those words. He suddenly felt warmer. The voice said something else, but sound was now just an unpleasant vibration in his already throbbing head and he missed what was said. The only indication of his passing out again was the abrupt absence of all his discomforts.

When Sorey stirred again, most of those pains remained—the headache, his hot skin, his sore stomach—but they were manageable rather than crippling, and his memory now had no issue piecing together where he was, or at least where he figured he had to be.

He rubbed his face as he sat up, vaguely aware that sunshine now filled the cave mouth. “Mikleo?” he muttered thickly.

“About time you came to.”

Sorey grunted. “How long was I out?”

“Two days, on and off.”

“Oh.” His vision finally cleared enough to make out the small campsite: the cave wall to his left, a fire to his right, and Mikleo seated on the other side of it. It was the first time Sorey had seen him with his hair down, although it was gathered forward over one shoulder. He seemed to be dressed pretty lightly for the weather outside, and then Sorey realized the seraph’s usual coat was currently serving as one of his blankets.

He stood up—slowly and carefully when his stomach protested—and stretched out the stiffness in his joints. “Thanks for looking out for me. And… sorry. Bad time to come down with something, huh.”

“Bad, but not the worst. Keep it for now,” Mikleo replied, when Sorey tried to offer his coat back. “Your fever’s not gone yet.”

Sorey opted to sit down across from him, tugging the coat around his shoulders as he did so. He had to give Mikleo credit for moving so quickly in battle—this thing was _heavy_. “So two days behind schedule,” he mused thoughtfully.

“Well, it’s not like we really had much of a schedule to begin with,” Mikleo pointed out as he stoked the fire. “Trekking blindly across the countryside has its perks.”

Sorey hummed. They’d given the family a loose estimation of their return date, so a few days wouldn’t make much of a difference in that regard, either. “Did the snowstorm ever die down?”

“Finally. But it looks like another one’s closing in, so once you’re good on your feet again, we should head out.” As if to emphasize that necessity, he pushed a mug and a bowl, both full and steaming, around to Sorey’s side. “Stomach what you can.”

“Right. Thanks.” Sorey let the mug warm his hands for a few seconds, and then a quiet laugh escaped him. “Just like old times, huh.”

“Hm?”

“When we were kids… every time I got sick, you’d make something for me and talk me into eating. Usually ice cream,” he added with a chuckle, “but it helped.” He looked up to find Mikleo’s gaze fixed on him, but it was a distant, thoughtful expression. Sorey’s smile faded slightly. “You… don’t remember.”

Mikleo blinked, and then glanced aside and down. “That was a long time ago,” he mused. “But... it sounds familiar.” With a brief shake of his head, he switched gears and smirked. “And I don’t doubt it, anyway. Sounds right that I’ve always had to babysit you, even back then.”

“When you put it _that_ way, you make it sound like I can’t look after myself.” Like so many times before, Mikleo only cocked an eyebrow as his skeptical answer. “I can!” Sorey objected. “I do!” As though on the most inconvenient of cues, he broke into a coughing fit that ended with a loud sniffle. “...Most of the time,” he amended hoarsely.

“...Right. Most of the time, except when you don’t, which is most of the time.”

Sorey snorted dismissively into his drink. “Like you never slip up. When was the last time you were sick?”

There was a thoughtful pause. “I don’t remember, actually,” said Mikleo in earnest. “A few hundred years ago, maybe.” Noting Sorey’s expression, he chuckled under his breath. “Meanwhile, you’ve barely been back two months—”

“ _Well_ —not all of us have had centuries to build up immunities, Mikleo.”

“Yeah, _that’s_ really the problem here.”

They regarded one another over the fire for a few beats. Sorey was the first to break with the slip of a smile, and then they both laughed.

“Really, though—I’m not sure I said it enough back then, so... thanks,” Sorey told him. “For always going out of your way. And for learning to make something other than ice cream,” he added lightly with a cheeky grin.

Mikleo looked away again, the usual tip-off that he was self-conscious. “You always make such a big deal out of everything,” he muttered.

That was definitely a case of the pot calling the kettle black, but Sorey let it slide. Instead, he only pointed out cheerfully, “But you put up with me.”

“You’re good for a few things, I’ll give you that.” Mikleo’s tone was deadpan, but his smile said otherwise.

“Just a few?”

“Don’t push it.”

After another quiet laugh, Sorey conceded and fell silent to give his sore throat a rest. He still ached all over, but it was manageable. As long as Mikleo didn’t make a fuss over it, he’d be ready to rise and get going within the day; if he did fuss, Sorey would make a point not to argue, for once. _Just_ this once.


End file.
